I’mpressed

I’ve inherited a big box of wild fern and garden flowers,

That my ol’ mum picked, pressed and it took her hours,

They’re old, but okay and so I can see,

I could be making things from these for an eternity.

 

An impressive collection from over some years,

That to recall some memories of mother, could bring on a few tears,

But that there’s a pretty, profitable and crafty job to do,

Not to waste them, but to create nice things for both me and perhaps some for you?

 

~ mallow ~

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Fred

As a child, I recall a rescued blackbird that became so attached to me and would follow me around.  A happy memory of playing stupid games with him and not sure who named him “Fred”.  Sometimes (being a child) the hide and seek would end in me forgetting all about him and he would be stuck in a draw!  Poor Fred, bless ‘im he would “coo coo coo” and I would remember him again.  He was an affectionate birdy, that did try to tidy up my knotted hair and clean my ears.  He ended up being released and becoming a dad and grandad to lots of blackbirds in the area.  Another one of my mother’s rescues.

Pressed

She was canny my mother.  For “Pin money she sold her pressed flower pictures, homemade knick knacks and created stuff all over the place, including a little shop called The Magpie, Sutton Coldfield.  I recall a box full of felt witches on little stick broomsticks, lovingly wrapped in white tissue, strapped to the back of her motorbike, me strapped to her and the seat, her all warm and cosy in her big ol’ fluffy coat.  Then off we would go, me holding on like a baby koala bear.

Note 1)  Apparently people put them witches onto their car mirror, to dangle for Halloween (which BTW is coming up this next Monday).  The things Mum sold paid for our annual caravan holiday on the east coast, UK.

Note 2)  On the journey, if a lorry passed close by and made mother feel pressed into the curb, she would hold the course tight and close her eyes!  I’m sometimes hard pressed now thinking:  “How the F***ing hell did I survive my childhood!!”  Yet here I am to recall it and share it on wordpress to you privileged few who read it.

 

Ewe’s lament

Ewe

Sad, sad times, as each child is taken.

It doesn’t have to be this way, as humans really do NOT need to eat the flesh of other sentient beings!  Those poor young mothers, as their children get taken each year and sometimes twice in one year the lambs are grieved, as [Humanity Fails] again and again.

As for farmers and bloody “suppliers”, these are sentient beings NOT a harvest or crop!

Dad for shoes!

Okay, so if as a child I went into town with mother to buy shoes:

  1. Mum sees a pair of shoes, tries them on me, mum of course says “They’re nice shoes.”    Love
  2. Walks out of shop and on to the next shop (me still wearing my old tight shoes)
  3. Goto  1.

With my father to buy shoes:

  1. Dad gets my feet measured, sees a pair of walkable yet a little bit girly shoes in that same shop and tries them on me, buys them, I keep them on and put the old pair in the shoebox to take home
  2. Woolworths for some pick~&~mix
  3. British Home Stores to the upstairs restaurant for dinner and a pudding
  4. Go home on the bus happy in comfortable shoes  Love
  5. Mum says “Oh now they are nice shoes.”

To say they did things differently is a true personification of the expression:  An understatement!

My mother the activist

My mother could look “normal” yet she most certainly was not!  Mildly it could be put, that my Mum was “outspoken” and now~a~days would most definitely be called an activist for nature, for kindness towards the less fortunate…  and she had her moments of clarity when it came to equality.  These moments would make her leap into action.  Throwing tight new shoes far away over a wall just came to mind (the boy with no arms or hands, needed bare feet to feed himself, as she had seen and knew from before that he could).

 

Matchboxes

As I was blogging “sticky~backed~plastic”  I recalled my mum using it and so as not to make my blog post a massive long one, here I scheduled this bit of sharing for you now:

Dad used to grow specific flowers that mother could use for her pressed flowers.  She would place loo roll in strips in the centre of newspapers, putting the flowers individually on so as they didn’t touch each other, face down, then fold the pages back and popped the lot under the carpet.  Pressed flower picture making was one thing, but she also attached the flowers to those big boxes of matchboxes using UHU glue, then cover them over with the see~through version of sticky~backed~plastic.  So pretty they looked and the box kept drier.  People bought them and money flowed our way.  I have to say, our mother was resourceful when it was ways of making a bob or two, I’ll give her that.

escapeThrough all these small creative things, mum made enough money for us to escape that end of terrace in the midlands for an off~to~the~seaside break still in the UK.  Oh what adventures we had from the inside of an old caravan or “shalay“.   Dad never came with us, because being an ex~navy officer he said he’d already been all around the world more than twice and wanted to stay at home.  So me, mum, my nephews, friends…  all buggered off and let him have some peace to potter around doing a spot of DIY.

Getting away always meant more opportunities to get into childhood trouble, away from the busy eyes.  {{{smirk}}} I will tell you a bit about the adventures another day, maybe?